Not weak.
Never weak.
But wounded in a place money could not reach.
—He wrote that letter two days before he died, —Adrian said.
Evelyn’s hand tightened around the edge of the desk.
—I’m sorry.
His gaze snapped back.
—Don’t.
—Don’t what?
—Don’t apologize for them.
—I’m not. I’m sorry someone should have helped him and didn’t.
That landed.
Hard.
Adrian turned toward the window, his jaw working like he was biting down words he had not allowed himself to say in ten years.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
—Why didn’t you go to the police?
Evelyn laughed once, bitter and soft.
—With what money? With what lawyer? My father had people watching my laptop after he found out I was applying for scholarships. Marcus once locked me in the wine cellar for four hours because I refused to forge a vendor signature. My mother told me if I embarrassed them, she would tell everyone I was unstable. They had my passport, my car title, my phone records. They made sure every door looked open and every key stayed in their hands.
Adrian said nothing.
—And before you ask why I came to the wedding, —Evelyn continued, —because my father told me if I ran, he would report me for stealing company files. He said no one would believe a daughter who had been “acting emotional.” He said a man like Alden Vale would not marry a thief.
Adrian looked back at the mask.
—Alden Vale would have.
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed.
—What was your plan for me?
The question sat between them like a blade.
Adrian did not answer quickly.
That told her enough.
—You were going to use me.
—I was going to use the marriage, —he said.
—That’s a pretty expensive way to say yes.
His expression hardened.
—Your father sold you. I gave him the rope.
—And me?
Adrian walked closer, stopping with enough distance between them that she did not have to step back.
—You were supposed to be proof of what they were. The daughter they would trade to save the house. The innocent face that made their greed undeniable.
—So I was bait.
—Yes.
The honesty hurt more than a lie would have.
Evelyn looked down at the white dress.
At the tiny pearls stitched into the sleeves.
At the skirt her mother had called “tasteful enough for an old man.”
Then she lifted her chin.
—Then let me be better bait.
Before Adrian could respond, someone knocked.
Three sharp taps.
He immediately reached into his jacket.
Evelyn noticed.
Not a panic move.
A trained one.
—Who is it? —he called.
A woman’s voice answered.
—Mara Quinn. And if you are doing anything illegal in there, Adrian, I expect to be paid double to witness it.
Adrian unlocked the door.
A woman in her forties entered wearing a camel coat over black pajamas, her red hair twisted into a clip, her face carrying the exhaustion of someone who had once been called at midnight by billionaires and never quite recovered.
She stopped when she saw Evelyn.
Then the mask on the desk.
Then Adrian without the mask.
—Well, —Mara said. —That explains the terrible wedding photos.
Evelyn almost laughed.
Almost.
Mara held up a leather folder.
—You must be Evelyn. I’m your lawyer tonight. Not his. If he speaks too much, I bill him for annoying me.
Adrian’s mouth tightened.
—Charming as always.
—You hired me because I’m immune to your tragic eyes.
Mara turned to Evelyn, all business now.
—I need to ask you plainly. Did you enter this marriage willingly?
Evelyn stared at the wedding ring on her finger.
Then she said the truth.
—Legally, probably. Honestly, no.
Mara’s expression softened by one degree.
—Then we start there.
For the next hour, while the rain beat harder against Vale Manor, Evelyn signed documents that gave her something she had not had in years.
